


The Bride

by TheCrimsonValley



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrimsonValley/pseuds/TheCrimsonValley
Summary: Alternative story for events in Outlast: Whistleblower.





	The Bride

**Author's Note:**

> First and only outlast work. Fandom drop out since years but this story still deserves to be in my archives.

She was perfect. A delicacy to be unwrapped and unwrapped again. A masterpiece of femininity and the true spirit of the frail and fluttering creature that every woman should strive to be. She was gorgeous.

She gazed around in her chamber, wagging her foot about a bit. It had almost fallen asleep and it made her realize that she needed to get up and move about. She found herself not minding. It would be a good way to check on the state of their love nest. After all, a wife’s work was never done.

She started her descent down the long corridor, sighing to herself as she once more realized that she would have to sweep up the mess that her groom had left behind. Of course it was not his fault, she would never blame him. It was most certainly another of those ungrateful whores that tried to walk in on her territory. They never learned and they never succeeded.

None of them would even come close to her standards and none of them were enduring enough. They did not put themselves into the right mind set. A woman had to suffer at times that was just the way nature had intended things to be. But they could never take it. Not like she could. She endured, she had done so many times. It was not a test it was an obligation and duty that she happily agreed to.

As she rounded the corner, aiming to see if her groom was still present in his workshop, she could feel how she stepped into a warm puddle of that horrid red liquid that “they” always left behind. With an annoyed grunt, she grasped the edge of her dress, lifting it up so it would not get ruined further, cursing lowly for herself. Of course she did not do it too loud. Cursing was not feminine.

She did take note that the latest one had left quiet a mess for her. Overthrown furniture and broken chairs. And all these marks on the walls and floor. It would take her ages to clean it all up, if she managed before the next ordeal. She did not mind doing it for her love but it was a tad degenerating to have to clean up these ungrateful bitches last messes.

With the same gentle hand as always, she knocked onto the workshop door. Walking in without a man’s permission was unthinkable. But there was no answer and so she softly pushed it open.

“Love?”

Silence. She let the door open completely, gazing upon the workshop. Her groom was nowhere to be seen but it was made obvious to her that he must be telling this mess maker off by now. A perfect opportunity for her to clean up.

Humming to herself, she moved up to the closet where she kept all the supplies. Picking out the usual rags and bucket, filling it with water and turning her attention towards the workbench. In a circular motion she started scrubbing it clean. She wanted it to shine when her love came back.

She could hear rain outside and this caused her to worry a little. Lately it seemed like there had been a quiet a few leaks here and there. Not to mention the latest times when she had heard this ghastly rumbling, as if a giant was walking through their home. She was certain that she had even seen some sort of massive animal out in the courtyard, though her ever loving groom had told her it was a silly fantasy of hers. After all, women makes up the stupidest things as soon as their nerves start playing.

She thought to herself, as she squeezed the rag over the bucket that this for sure was no neighbourhood to raise their children in. It was too noisy and too many distractions for her poor love. Just the other day she had even caught sight of these ghastly men staring her down. Brutish and without class, speaking as if she wasn’t even there. She had just held her head high and moved as far away as possible.

With a happy hum, she declared the workbench cleaned up and instead turned her attention towards the various cloths spread around. She hoped there was some material she could use for a new dress. To pretty oneself up was just as important as being in the marriage bed at night.

“Oh love” she said to herself, imagining her groom standing at the door and listen “you have such a clumsy way of dealing with these things, how I wish you would just call for my help with this.”

She grabbed one of the rags, dragging it up and putting it on her arm. She made sure to fold it of course, it would be double the work if she left it all wrinkly. As she reached for the next item something fell to the floor, making a clattering sound.

“Now what’s this?”

She gently put the clothes onto the clean working bench and moved up to the object. It was reviled to be a video camera and it looked brand new. She was more than baffled at what cluts would leave such a precious item like that. But one person’s loss was another’s gain. With gleeful excitement she grabbed it, flipping the screen open and hitting the on button.

It worked nice, there was a few statics breaking through every now and then but other than that perfect! She heard herself give away that small giggle as she quickly collected the rest of the clothes and then headed back to her own room.

As she entered she first put the pile of fabric onto her desk, perhaps a little sloppier that usual. She did not like to make a mess but she was still exited at this new little treasure to add to their household.

As she sat down on her bed, clutching it in her hands there was a strange feeling coming over her. It was only present for a few minutes but it was that word that one could only describe in French. Déjà vu. She shrugged it off. It was just silly superstition.

She tried to hit the record button, thinking with a smile that she could for sure use it to compare outfits. It was easier than a mirror. Besides she was not too fond of mirrors anyway. But the camera promptly told her the memory was full. With a frown she thought that of course, such a sloppy person must have filled the thing entirely and never emptied it.

She was about to throw it all away but there was something stopping her. She dubbed it to be curiosity though her stomach twisted in an unfamiliar way when she hit the play button for one of the entries. 

It started rolling. Dark corridors. Rain hammering in the background. Shifting back and forth between night vision and normal. Screams being heard in the background. The recorder huffing and gasping, as if tired or frightened. She felt how it tugged a little at her heart strings. The poor thing sounded so… pitiful.

A quick cut. The camera turning off and back on. A new corridor. More familiar this time. It was in her own home. The person whimpering. It was obvious for her that the recorder was limping, the camera bobbing up and down in a strange manner.

A new room was entered. Cold and stale. The tile told her it was a bathroom. In some sort of strange hypnotic trance she kept watching the recording, rolling on. The person entered a bathroom stall. Night vision turned on.

“Oh god Lisa, I’m so sorry, I fucked up.”

A voice, so strangely familiar it scared her. She raised up quickly, putting the camera down onto the bed and backing away from it. She did not want to touch it. It was frightening, terrifying. Who was this person? Why had they recorded this in her home! Who was he speaking to? Who was Lisa? Why did the name sound so familiar?

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” the voice continued, leaving her in the realization that she had not turned off the recording “but I fucked up bad!”

She was quivering to the core as she tried to decide what to do. She didn’t want to touch the camera. There was something not right about it. But she couldn’t leave it like that. That voice was eating away at her brain, it was going places she didn’t want to. It as invading her. Piercing and tearing and ripping. 

She managed to move up, fumbling, grabbing the camera and trying to put her finger onto the stop button. As she had almost managed to reach it, the perspective of the recording shifted and a face appeared.

A face of a beaten and bruised and crying man. He was half covered in dust, his fringe being almost grey in colour. He was all dressed in the same outfit at most of the others around here. No class. No dignity. But yet… She couldn’t pin point him. But she had seen him somewhere.

“Don’t ask to see my body, Lisa” the man whimpered, chewing at his lower lip “when I die, when you finish the lawsuit…”

A loud bang. The recorder, this eerily familiar man whimpering, holding on to the camera for dear life. The lights flashing on, destroying the night vision completely and rendering the film completely white for a moment.

“Oh god no, please no!”

The shouts of the man, the sounds of struggle. Another voice, speaking above it. Another voice that rang clearer than anything. Her love. Her groom. Speaking to this… man. Talking to him in the same way as to her.

She was frozen into place, petrified at this gut wrecking experience. But why was it affecting her? Why was this different? She had heard begging before, so many times she would no longer pay attention to it and simply drag the edge of her dresses away from the peasant whores who tried to grab her. Why? Why was this different?

She barley realized it but the night vision on the footage had been turned off. It was the workshop. Camera on the floor. Screaming and begging still. She could only see the leg of her love and this familiar stranger. It was the workbench. And a lot of other equipment. Syringes, scissors, surgical tools.

Her brain hurt. The screams of the man continued, going between pleading and insulting, sometimes breaking in hysterical crying. It was as if it was a parasite that had dug its way deep into her head and by now it had infested her eyes. Made her see things. Made her see these horrible things.

The room, smelling of dried and fresh blood. Tears, tasting salt in her mouth. No, no, not her mouth. Flaying her arms around. Begging, screaming, clawing, fighting. For life. For his sex. For Lisa. For the boys. Not she but he. Not her but him.

And pain. Astonishing agonising pain followed by darkness. Sweet merciful darkness. A morphine to doze off the crippling pain. Floating in this place of nothingness. And then life crudely kicking in. Some sick twisted “miracle”. She was born on that workbench. On that god damn disgusting workbench!

With a scream she threw the camera towards the wall, hearing it smash and the recording breaking out. She was sobbing, hysterically over something that was and would never be again. She bitterly wept over the man that once were but never more would be.


End file.
